


Fleeting Moments

by arysa13



Series: 2020 Kink Meme Fills [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Cheating, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Clarke is a rich trophy wife and Bellamy is her personal trainer she’s having an affair with.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: 2020 Kink Meme Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607062
Comments: 29
Kudos: 239
Collections: Bellarke smut, The 100 Kinkmeme Round 2020





	Fleeting Moments

Marcus kisses her every morning as he heads out the door to work. Clarke pretends to like it. This morning, he also grabs a handful of ass.

“Getting a little chubby there, aren’t we?” Marcus frowns. “Have you been following your diet?”

Clarke plasters a smile on her face. “Of course I have, darling. I only want to look good for you.”

“Well, perhaps we need to adjust it. Can’t have you getting fat just before the campaign tour, can we?”

“No, darling,” Clarke agrees.

She’s used to it by now. Agreeing to everything he says. It’s not like he’d hit her, or hurt her, if she bit back at him. If she told him how much she hates him, how he makes her feel like total shit when he mentions her weight, or her hair, or her outfit, or her make-up. But she knew what this was when she married him. She’s there to look good and shut up. And if she doesn’t look good, she’s out on her ass without a penny to her name. She’d have to get a _job_. She doesn’t know how to work. She grew up rich, and she married rich. But none of the money is actually hers. She may as well be living in the middle ages for all the rights she has in this relationship.

“Or maybe we up the hours of your personal trainer. Have him come over every day instead of three times a week.”

Clarke nods, trying not to seem too eager. “Yes, darling, what a good idea,” she says.

“If he still can’t get you in shape, I’ll have to fire him,” Marcus scowls. Clarke’s stomach drops at that. Her sessions with Bellamy, her personal trainer, are the only parts of her week she looks forward to.

“I’m sure he can,” Clarke says quickly. “I have a session this afternoon, I’ll tell him we need to work harder.”

“Good,” Marcus nods, pleased. “I want you looking your best. I’ll see you when I get home.” He kisses her again, and Clarke kind of zones out. She’s an expert at thinking of other things.

He leaves, and Clarke is alone in the big, empty house, save for the maid, whom Marcus has told her she’s not to befriend.

She goes back upstairs to get dressed—she’s already done her hair and make-up. She always makes sure to get up earlier than her husband so he never sees her without it. God, what would he say if he ever saw her bare-faced, hair a mess? It’s exhausting, sometimes, having to look her best all the time. But at least she never has to cook, or clean her own house, right?

Her morning is spent at a meaningless brunch with other high-society trophy wives, who chat about trivial things Clarke couldn’t care less about. They gossip about Harper, who’s eight months pregnant, and whose husband is reportedly cheating on her with their maid. It’s such a cliché.

All Clarke can think about is getting through the morning so she can see Bellamy, and work out some of her frustrations. She thinks about him putting his head between her thighs, slipping his tongue inside her. She thinks about him kissing her all over, fucking her hard, making her come again and again and again. She doesn’t think the other ladies even notice she’s not all there. When brunch is finally over, Clarke races home, though he’s not due for another hour.

She sends the maid out for groceries, and tells her not to come back for a few hours. She stands by the bathroom sink, watching herself in the mirror as she pulls the pins out of her perfect French bun, then drags her curls back into a tight ponytail. She peels off her fake eyelashes, and washes her face clean. She doesn’t need all that with Bellamy. She’ll have to do it all again later, before Marcus gets home. But it’s not like she has anything better to do. Then she puts on her sports bra, and her tiny little gym shorts, and waits for Bellamy’s arrival.

He’s there early, like he knows she’s waiting for him. She kids herself that he’s just as eager to see her as she is to see him. Like he’s not fucking all his other rich clients, like she’s special. She knows he sees her as just a dumb, bored, trophy wife, desperate for anything to give her a little excitement, anything to save her from the monotony of this life, her husband, if only for a few hours. He probably sees it all the time. If Harper’s life is a cliché, Clarke’s is just as bad.

She stops herself from running to greet him. She’s not that pathetic. But she’s pretty sure she’s beaming when she opens the door. He steps inside, his hands already sliding over her ass as he pulls her close to kiss her. He always knows just how she likes to be kissed. So different from how Marcus kisses her. Even the way he grips her ass is different—like she’s something to be worshipped, not something to be controlled. Her arms circle around his neck, and he kicks the door closed, still kissing her as he picks her up and her legs circle around his waist.

She’d stay like that for hours if he let her, in his strong arms, kissing him languidly. But he pulls back, tapping her ass, and she drops her feet to the floor again, trying not to pout.

“Workout first,” Bellamy grins. “Then you can have a reward.”

Normally she’d argue, tell him that sex _is_ the workout, but with Marcus’s words ringing in her head, she nods obediently, and leads the way to the gym. It’s half because she can’t afford to have Marcus leave her, and half because she doesn’t want Bellamy to think she’s ugly and stop sleeping with her.

He gets her on the treadmill first, starting with a brisk walk, standing by, arms folded, biceps bulging. God, he’s so fucking hot. He leans over and ups the pace a little, so Clarke has to start jogging. Her tits bounce, even in her sports bra.

“Are you watching my tits?” she asks him, already breathless.

“You know I am,” he says. Clarke glances at him, smirking. Her gives her ass a little spank. “Eyes on the prize, Princess.” He gives her another spank, and Clarke squeaks. Arousal drips from her cunt already. He ups the speed again, and Clarke is running now, and she’s starting to sweat. She’d never dare sweat in front of Marcus, even while they’re having sex. When he’s fucking her (can she even call it fucking? It’s a sad facsimile of fucking) she just lies there and waits for it to be over.

“Can we stop now?” Clarke puffs. She’s sure her face is an ugly shade of red.

“Another thirty seconds,” Bellamy says. “You’re doing so well, baby. Just a little further.”

He counts down once it gets to the last ten seconds, and the moment he stops, Clarke plants her feet on either side of the belt.

“Good girl,” Bellamy says proudly. His large hands grip her waist, and she lets him lift her off the treadmill and to the floor in front of her. He plants a soft kiss on her nose, and Clarke smiles, insides dissolving into goo at the fond gesture. “Sit-ups next.”

Clarke pouts. “I’d rather do weights,” she says.

“And are you in charge here? Or am I?”

“You are,” Clarke says reluctantly.

Bellamy smiles, amused. “You can have a kiss for every sit up you do, how about that?”

She nods. He helps her down onto the mat, though she doesn’t really need the help, and the helping involves a lot more touching of her ass and tits than strictly necessary. He kneels between her legs, so that every time she sits up, he’ll be there, ready to kiss her.

“Can you manage twenty?” he asks.

“Only if you promise you’re going to fuck me really good after.”

“Is that even a question?”

She starts her sit ups, and the first few are easy, especially with Bellamy waiting there, giving her a soft kiss every time she’s upright, counting each kiss. After the first ten, she starts to struggle, and she doesn’t want to do sit ups anymore.

On her twelfth sit-up, she gives him a second kiss, so smoothly he doesn’t even notice until she’s on her back again.

“Hey,” he says. “Cheater.”

Clarke grins, even through the pain of her exertion. She pulls herself up again. “I need more encouragement,” she says. Their lips brush, and Clarke goes back down.

“Is that right?” Bellamy asks, teasing. Another sit-up, another kiss. “That’s fourteen.”

“It’s fifteen.” She kisses him again, longer this time. “Sixteen,” she adds.

“That’s not how it works.”

She lies back down. “I can’t do any more.”

“Yes, you can,” Bellamy says. “You’ve only got six more. You can do it, baby. Then we’ll move on to something else.”

“I’ve got _four_ more,” she says. He gives her an unimpressed look.

“Fine,” he concedes, trying to hide his smile. “Four more.”

Clarke manages to pull herself up again. “Are you always such a pushover?” she whispers, as she presses her lips against his, gently.

“Never,” he murmurs. “Only with you.”

Clarke stomach does a somersault, and she kisses him again, deeper, trying to ignore the tight feeling in her chest. She tells herself he doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just saying things to make her feel good. It’s just another one of his training strategies.

As she kisses him, she feels his fingers ghost over the outside of her tight shorts, between her legs, where she’s pulsing with need. His thumb presses against her clit, and she gasps against his mouth.

“Four more,” he whispers. “And we can have a little interlude.”

“Three more.”

He circles his thumb, and Clarke widens her legs, pushing against his thumb. “Four more, or you get nothing.”

Clarke gives a moan, like that of a spoilt child, but she lowers herself back down, however reluctantly. She doesn’t get her kisses with each sit-up this time, but he keeps his hand between her legs, stroking her, murmuring words of encouragement and she finishes her last four sit-ups, then collapses to the floor.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Bellamy says, leaning over her, looking down at her red, sweat-covered face. “You did such a good job, baby. You still want your reward?”

Clarke nods, and Bellamy resumes petting her cunt through her shorts, which she’s sure must be almost completely soaked through by now. He slips his big, warm hand into her shorts, where she’s panty-less and waxed bare. Marcus would never allow anything less than a perfectly hairless pussy. Clarke hates him for that—and yet, if it were just for Bellamy, she’d be happy to do it.

He teases her with his fingers, big and rough, and so much more skilled than her husband. She likes the way he teases, the way he watches her as he fingers her, his eyes dark with want.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whines. “I want you to eat me out.”

He shakes his head. “Not until after. Shorts stay on until the workout is done, or I’ll never get them back on you.”

Clarke pouts, but her sulking is cut short by him pushing a thick finger inside her. She rocks her hips against his finger, desperate for friction, desperate for him. Obliging her, he sinks another finger inside her, stretching her wider, preparing her better for when she takes his cock later. He works his fingers, hitting a deep point inside her that makes her back arch and her eyes flutter closed, a silent moan on her lips.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Good girl. You deserve this.”

“Bellamy,” she moans breathily. “Feels so good. Yes, there. Yes. Oh—”

With his fingers pumping inside her, she reaches her peak, clenching around him, gasping, her own fingers trying to find something to grasp onto. He keeps his fingers inside her as she comes down, then leans down over her to kiss her. He slips his fingers from her cunt and sucks them into his mouth.

“You’ve soaked through your shorts, baby,” he tells her. “Dare you to keep them on until your husband gets home. Let him see how wet I make you.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Clarke huffs.

“Bet he thinks you can’t even get wet,” Bellamy continues. “Bet he has no idea how to please you, does he?”

Clarke shakes her head. Bellamy captures her lips in a searing kiss, and she can taste herself on his lips. Her cunt throbs, and though she’s only just recovered from her first orgasm, she already wants another.

She presses her hand against his chest, and it’s only through the element of surprise she manages to flip him over onto his back. She hooks her leg over him, straddling him, while he looks up at her, his eyes wide, still coming to terms with their sudden change in position.

“Workout is over,” Clarke says. She grinds her hips down, feeling his hard cock press against her wet shorts, only making her more desperate for him. “I need to be fucked.”

“Whatever you want, Princess,” Bellamy breathes. His hands slide up her thighs and come to rest on her waist as she humps him. She whips her sports bra over her head, freeing her tits, allowing them to jiggle obscenely with her ungraceful movements.

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans. “Fuck, your tits are amazing.” He reaches up, grabs one in each hand, squeezing them, rolling her hard nipples under his palms, watching them bounce in his hands while she continues to rock her hips against his cock.

“Shit, Clarke,” he pants, dropping his hands back to her waist. He grips tightly and she can tell he’s trying to alter her rhythm, slow her down. “Fuck, my cock. You gotta slow down, baby, or I’ll come in my pants.”

The thought of him coming in his pants elicits a soft whine from her mouth, and a rush of liquid from her pussy. Still, she slows down, because she still wants him inside her. Instead, she helps him take off his shirt, and then she’s tugging at her shorts, trying to get them off, falling to the floor in her haste.

Her shorts reach her ankles, and Bellamy helps her slip them off, along with her sock and sneakers.

“I need you to fuck me,” she urges, working on his shorts now. She reveals his cock, and she has to stifle a whimper. No matter how many times she has him, she’s still as impressed by him as she was the first time. “I need it so bad, Bell. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“I know you have, baby,” Bellamy says, rubbing her cheek with his thumb. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, don’t worry.” He kisses her, and she turns what starts out as something sweet into something depraved, her tongue licking into his mouth, devouring him greedily. She pushes him down again, still kissing him, climbing on top of him, lowering herself onto his cock, until she’s so full it hurts.

She lifts her head, closing her eyes as she rides him. The two of them move in time with one another, and it doesn’t take long for Clarke to build up to her second orgasm.

“I’m gonna come,” she whimpers. “Bell, please—”

“Clarke,” he groans. “You gotta stop,” he says. “I can’t hold off much longer—I need to come—I need—”

Clarke stops, though it pains her to do so. But he’s not allowed to come in her pussy. She’s not on the pill, and she doesn’t have any condoms. Marcus has been trying to get her pregnant, for years, but she’s pretty sure he’s sterile. She knows without a doubt Bellamy could get her pregnant on the first try.

Bellamy gently shifts her, cradling her in his arms as he switches their positions, his cock still inside her as he lowers her to the floor beneath him.

“Gonna fuck your ass,” he growls. “Fill your ass with my come. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Clarke says. God, she loves having his cock in her ass. Loves knowing her husband would think her a trashy whore if he knew just how much she likes having her ass fucked.

Bellamy slips his cock from her pussy, and runs his hands up the backs of her thighs as she lifts her hips, presenting her ass to him.

“Good girl,” he says, though it’s devoid of his usual teasing smirk, and is altogether more heated.

He presses the tip of his cock against her asshole, and she tenses for a moment, in anticipation. He waits for her to relax, then pushes into her, slowly. It’s a mixture of pleasure and discomfort, as she does her best to accommodate him.

When he’s sheathed inside her, he gives her a moment to adjust to his girth before he starts gently rocking against her, slowly picking up the pace, until he’s fucking into her ass at a steady rate.

“Fuck,” Clarke breathes. “Feels so good in my ass.”

“I know, baby,” Bellamy says. “You gonna come? Or you need some more help?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke moans. She doesn’t know much of anything right now, with him pounding her ass with his huge cock.

“I’m close,” he grunts. “Rub your clit, Princess. Come on, you’re almost there.”

Clarke drops her hand between her legs, frantically rubbing her clit, until the sensation is too much, and the dam breaks, sending her over the edge, her ass clenching tightly. He’s a moment behind her, her orgasm triggering his own, and he floods her ass with his thick seed.

He stays inside her while he softens, both of them breathing heavily, and then he slips out of her, his come dripping out of her ass with his cock. Clarke brings her legs together, and Bellamy collapses on the floor next to her.

“Not my best effort,” he admits. He rolls onto his side and slings his arm over her stomach. He kisses her ear, and then her cheek, stroking her belly with the backs of his fingers. “I blame you,” he grins. “If you weren’t so fucking gorgeous, I’d be able to last longer.”

Clarke smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, or her heart. “You don’t have to say that,” she says.

“Come on, Clarke,” Bellamy rolls his eyes. “You know you’re gorgeous. I know you don’t _need_ me to tell you, but I’m sure your husband doesn’t tell you enough.”

“No,” Clarke agrees. She bites her lip. “He never tells me, actually. Not since we got married. He thinks I’m getting fat, actually. And he already thinks my tits are too big. He never lets me wear anything that shows cleavage.”

Bellamy’s nostrils flare, and his jaw ticks. “He’s such a fucking asshole. He doesn’t know what a good thing he has. Your body is perfect, Clarke.”

“Well, I mean, it would be my own fault if I got fat and he left me. He married me because I’m pretty. That’s all I’m good for.”

Bellamy’s face hardens. “You can’t be serious.” Her sad expression must show him that she is indeed serious. “Clarke,” he says, voice softening. “You are so smart, and funny, and strong, and _brilliant_. I wish he could see that. I wish _you_ could see that.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, looking away so he won’t see the tears forming in her eyes.

“You don’t have to be with him, you know,” Bellamy says quietly.

Clarke snorts. She turns back to him, brushing her tears away. “And what am I going to do without him? I have no money, no job, no skills.”

“I’d take care of you,” Bellamy murmurs. “It wouldn’t be like this—nothing fancy. But we could be happy.”

Clarke stares at him, barely comprehending. “What are you saying?” she chokes out. “Are you messing with me?”

Bellamy shakes his head. He frowns. “Clarke, I’m in love with you,” he says. “Surely you must know that.”

She swallows. “You don’t—you don’t fuck all your rich clients?”

He laughs. “God, no. It’s just you, Clarke. It’s only ever been you.” Her stomach clenches, and the tears begin to spill. Fuck. She thinks she might be in love with him too. “Don’t cry,” he whispers, kissing the streaks of tears on her cheeks. “It’s okay. I know I’m being stupid. I don’t expect you to leave your husband for me.”

“But you want me to.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice husky, nervous. “I want you to marry me. Have my babies.”

“I want that too,” Clarke admits.

“Yeah?”

She nods. There’s a fleeting moment where she thinks she might do it, and she sees the hope in his eyes. But then it’s over, and they both know she’s not going to do it. Not yet, anyway.

“Come on,” he says, getting to his feet. He holds out his hand. “Time to shower.” He’s hurt, she knows he’s hurt, but he’s doing his best to hide it.

She takes his hand and lets him help her to her feet. “I’m sorry, you know,” she says. “I really wish I could.”

“I know, Clarke,” he says sadly.

“You must think I’m a coward.”

“Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean you’re a coward. I know it would mean uprooting your whole life. And with me—it wouldn’t be the kind of life you’re used to. I know that.”

“I don’t want that stuff to matter to me. Material things.”

Bellamy shrugs. “You’re just not ready yet. Maybe one day you will be.”

Clarke nods. “Maybe.”


End file.
